


Lather, Rinse

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Cheating, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Patterns, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Florence goes to Freddie's room when she arrives in Bangkok to make good on their standing date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lather, Rinse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my dear friend Emily on request. Important to note that Freddie here is AFAB.

It’s not cheating, because it’s Freddie.

These things always seem to happen with them. They haven’t been apart, not really, in too many years – and Florence thinks to herself every time she finds Freddie’s head tucked under her chin, her fingers tracing gently the scars of his years-ago surgery beneath his arm, that perhaps this is how they were always meant to be.

They could never be married, but they can certainly do this.

In Bangkok, he opens his door and finds her there like he has once a month, every month since the breakup. (if that was even what they were calling it)

She smiles. He smiles.

He grasps her wrists and tugs her inside before the cameras can find them, and they tumble onto his bed in the semi-darkness.

With Freddie, it’s always been easy. With Freddie she knows she’s loved; not just loved, even, but _needed._ She’s the only one who knows about him, and he’s the only one whose ever made her feel beautiful – the thought is cut abruptly short as his fingers slip up beneath her dress, her breath coming in a gasp.

“Missed you too,” she groans, kicking her panties down her thighs. Anatoly won’t miss them. He’ll think that she hadn’t worn any at all, just for him. He’ll be so pleased.

(If there’s one thing still going right in their relationship, it’s the sex – but Florence has yet to meet a man besides Freddie who actually knew where her clit was.)

“I love you,” Freddie tells her, as always, his fingers hard and desperate on her hips, his pants already piled on the floor. He’s got this fevered look on his face, determination. He’s always driven himself crazy, obsessive, over this or that or her or him. She takes solace in the fact that it’s her he wants, and not Anatoly, because he could probably have him if he wanted and there went her pretty future.

“Mm…” Their bodies just fit together, curves against curves, smooth and warm and aching with need, both of them. He kisses all down her neck, helping her with the zip of her dress and not bothering to watch it pool at the foot of the bed. There is skin to explore, to taste and touch, to press his nose against and inhale as though he’s afraid he’s never going to get the chance again. Kissing, dragging his lips through the trails of Anatoly’s fingers, erasing them and marking her.

She wonders if Anatoly will notice, this time. But that’s absurd.

He never has before.

They’re going to be as close to married as they can be for the rest of their lives, and he’ll probably never find out. Not if she had her say.

Not if Freddie kept on loving her, kept coming back.

(Freddie always comes back.)

“Oh – Freddie,” she begins, a plea or a warning, her fingers buried in his hair (he really needs a haircut, but it’s so hard, so hard to focus when –) as he rubs his thumb above the slit, teasing, stroking at her thighs. “Freddie –!”

He grins, and she can feel the mischief in the shape of his lips against the shell of his ear just before he bites.

“Yes?” he whispers, the fabric gone between them, their chests pressed tightly together. Their bodies fit, they fit, they’re always going to fit and what is she going to do, go back to Anatoly again? It’s hopeless. They’re hopeless together, and still, she’s trying to make it work.

She tells herself that he’s better for her, but really, she thinks that perhaps she’d just wanted a break.

Now she wants Freddie. “Freddie, stop teasing,” she demands, fingers tight in his hair. He doesn’t stop her from dragging his head down to exactly where it would have ended up anyways, her hips arching beautifully off the bedspread.

Her skin is gold on white, blooming with contrast – reds and violets, roses where Freddie had sucked like a baby kitten, always stumbling after her, always coming back. She shouldn’t do this to him, but she can’t help it, and she knows that.

Sometimes she wonders who’s playing who, here.

“God – _Freddie!”_ she moans, one leg wrapping around his shoulders, and his hands squeeze tight and reassuring around her thighs as he spreads them and anchors them around his neck, tongue pressing wet and eager against her. Sometimes, there just isn’t the time for foreplay. Not when she’s already gasping, groaning, wanting, taking.

Freddie flicks his tongue cheekily over her clit and laps there, teasing, until she’s nearly pulled his hair out by the roots.

“Mmh – ” She can’t get it out, not a word, only sound and feeling and _yes, yes, please, yes_ to the erratic rhythm of her heartbeat as her veins rush and soar with the sweet venom of his touch. Freddie will always come back because they’re in each other’s blood – their souls.

His lips caress her inner thighs, his nose, and then his tongue is plunging again up inside her, straight and tensed and fucking her like he couldn’t, like he wanted to, but it’s so much more than enough and Freddie has never been deficient in anything, has always exceeded expectations.

“Fred- _die, fuck!”_ and she will apologize, later, for her vulgarity, and Freddie will only smirk and lick his lips as she goes, his fingers slipping from her shoulders, and the warmth of them will tingle there for the next month until she’s back in his room, on his bed, spread out for him, loving him more than she had thought she could bear anymore.

“Mmm… Florence,” she hears groaned from between her legs, before his tongue returns to her clit, flicking mercilessly, and two slender fingers take it’s place and curl inside her until all she sees is white. It’s fitting.

“Freddie – Freddie –” she gasps, her fingers twisted in the sheets, in his hair. She gives it a tug, urgent, as the heat that’s spread over her skin like honey pools in her gut, concentrates hotly between her legs where her thighs are tensing, trembling around his head. “Let me –”

“Mm,” he groans in response, the vibrations of his stubborn refusal travelling up through her stomach and making her eyes roll back. His hand is moving between his legs, frantic, rubbing and he won’t be able to keep this up much longer with the desperate way his lips are trembling. She yanks his hair again, and he comes lurching up her body, hands already at her breasts, kneading her nipples. They kiss like they’re dying, like the fireworks back in New York, like their last fight, before their little arrangement had begun. She digs her nails into his shoulders and rolls over him, rocking her thigh up between his legs until he’s keening.

“ _Please!”_ He’s not ashamed to beg, not here. Not ever, with her. She’s panting, sucking at his lower lip, and he’s clutching her hips and rocking up against her like his life depends on it, and she hears it on his breath, _I love you I love you I love you –_

_Come back to me._

She can’t. She can’t… But she can give him this.

“Mm, Freddie… Please let me,” she whispers enticingly against his lips, and rubs her fingers against his clit until he looks like he’s going to cry, writhing and whimpering beneath her. “Come on…”

She presses her lips to his neck and strokes his shoulder, and holds him as he comes, gasping and sobbing, rubbing him through it until the sheets are soaked and then shifting to relieve herself as well. He paws at her, kissing her frantically, fondling every inch of skin he can reach but she’s already so close and she breaks her mouth away to groan as her hips jolt forward and she’s joining him, collapsed beside him on the sweaty mattress.

Her hair is wild around them. Freddie makes a face and picks a strand from his mouth, the silence thickening between them peacefully.

They don’t talk about this. They’ve never _talked_ about any of this, not in eight years.

But she presses a hand over his heart before she leaves, and looks at him, and smiles sadly.

“I love you too, Freddie.”

When she’s gone, he’ll lean against the door and tip his head back, and the tears will finally spill over and he won’t even know exactly why, except that he will see Florence tomorrow and she will pretend she never knew him.

But she’ll be back. Next month…

She always comes back.

And he’ll be waiting.


End file.
